Some Enchanted Evening
by Stratagem Blue
Summary: A slight mishap one winter night and Erik finds himself dreaming of a beautiful world in which love and warmth have not been denied him. Yet when he wakes, the cold reality of the world reenters, but this time with a single lovely flaw…Modern. EC. Leroux.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera

A/N: A warm and delightful EC Christmas tale, full of the spirit of the holidays, some Christmas angst, and a few fluffy moments between our favorite couple. The storyline is one that most of you will recognize, one that has been used in many films and TV shows, but I'm hoping that with a Phantom spin to it, the story will become unique and original. Enjoy.

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The Falling

Every December night was a bitter experience, and this one was no different. There were no winds to stir up the soft blanket of snow that spanned out in all directions, but the silence did something to enhance the cold. Nothing made a sound, and the stillness was so perceptive, so unnaturally _eerie_, that the only thing left to really consider was the chill of winter. He put his gloved hands to his mouth and blew, the warmth of his breath permeating the thin material and giving him a brief moment of heat. He glanced about him in the endless white kingdom, the sheen of it glowing dimly like the surface of his mask magnified by a thousand times. A cynical smile rose to his slightly blue lips.

_If I had worn all white, I could blend in and disappear_, he thought, a harsh laugh escaping him and sending up a whiff of frozen air. It was alarmingly loud in the hush of the night. _Then I could dispense with these worn traditions of the holidays, and not have to find seclusion from the merriment that has to spread like wildfire. It really is quite tiresome for those who sit alone by the fireside when Christmas Eve comes, having no one but the dying embers to keep them company._

From somewhere distant, he heard the sound of carols being sung. The music was so light that at times he had to strain to hear it, but what caught his ear was simple and wholesome. It was possibly the only part of this entire season that he could enjoy. The music was hardly intricate, but there was something to its plain and easy flowing rhythm that charmed him. It carried an innocence that always escaped his own music of requiems and operas, and it amazed him that those who sang during Christmas, who sang at no other time of the year, could give out such an enchanting sound.

Had he only one wish, (_a Christmas wish_, he thought with rueful sarcasm), it would be to hear Christine sing him a carol. It did not matter which one, or if it was done to piano or sung a capella; it only mattered that she would sing it, and he knew she would do it justice. Her voice was so naturally pure that, unrestrained by the pitch or tempo of classical style, she would make it sound like the perfect, natural Christmas melody.

Of course, it would never happen. Her every Christmas would pass without sight of him, under a lush tree decorated wondrously with ornaments and garland, delightful smells coming from the kitchen, lights strung up and painting the snow like a December rainbow. All shared together with her young man. The anger that had accompanied him for so long after their departure, after losing her to someone with an unmarred face and a life of sunlit days, had ebbed to nothing. He could no longer feel anything towards the images of him. It was only her that evoked any response, any emotion at all, and it was always longing.

His only wish this night was that wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she was completely and utterly happy. Bathed in love and friendship, snuggling up in a warm blanket with a mug of hot chocolate, or sipping champagne at a humble party with those she cared about most. And maybe, just maybe, that she was pausing right at that moment to think of him, and smiling softly at some memory of the music they had made.

He stopped for a moment, letting the carols drift over the covered grounds to his lone spot in the empty park. He found it nearly peaceful, a strange calm enveloping him that he had not experienced for years without measure. He even forgot the cold that bit cruelly at his skin, numbing him to the bone just before it reached his heart, which was numb even in the summertime. He closed his eyes.

_"Silent night…holy night…all is calm…all is bright…"_

_He saw Christine standing center stage, her face flushed with pleasure and pride. She stood with roses about her feet, applause raining down on her as the audience revered its new diva, stunned and charmed by the extravagance of her voice. He had never loved her more than in that moment of glory…and had never felt so alone. Standing there, she belonged to all of Paris, the vigor of her youth and the passion of her spirit already capturing the heart of the man seated in Box Five. He had felt a remorse almost as if she had died, watching from the shadows as she soaked up the light and laughter around her. She would never belong with him; he was the complete opposite in the way the world beheld her; she was meant to be seen and heard, cherished and adored and even envied. It was the most staggering revelation to finally comprehend that by giving her his music, he had made her into a star and pushed her out into the world for others to admire; into the very world where he could not follow. _

_"Sleep in heavenly peace…sleep in heavenly peace."_

"Erik?"

His eyes flew open, the amber hue a shocking contrast to the night around him. He stared out over the sparse trees and snow covered benches, heart fluttering rapidly as he searched for the source of his name. He saw no one, and he realized he must have imagined it, so deeply held by his thoughts that he had heard only what he longed to hear. He sighed and began to walk again, his spirits more crushed than he had believed could come of a simple daydream.

"Erik? Can it really be you?"

He stopped, his breathing ragged. He knew he hadn't imagined anything that time. He spun around, trying desperately to pierce the darkness and see the only person who could possibly own that voice. Everything was embedded in the same whiteness, and he became disoriented as to what direction he had believed he heard his name. He paused, swallowing down his fear and disbelief as he tried to examine the world through a rapid pulse. Feeling somewhat foolish, he took a deep breath.

"Christine?" He did not shout, only spoke loudly, fearing that he might be talking to phantoms of his mind once again.

"Erik!"

He turned and saw the silhouette of a dark shape at the crest of the next hillock. It was framed only by the dim radiance of the snow beneath it, a darker shade than the starless sky all around. It began moving toward him slowly, almost cautiously, and he found his feet had already begun to move without his awareness. He began to run, the frigid air stinging sharply as it entered his lungs. Even if it was a delusion, a cruel trick of his lonely, defeated mind, he didn't care; he'd take it.

As he ran, he lost attentiveness to his surroundings. He paid no heed to the condensed environment around him, the devious way the land had changed, and so it was no surprise that when he ran across the slick surface of a vast patch of ice, he slipped and fell on his back.

His head connected painfully with some solid object, instantly dulling his senses. The pain streaked across his mind like a single bolt of lightning in a mass of dark clouds, searing and intense. He reached slowly to the throbbing point and winced at the subtle touch, drawing his fingers back to reveal that they were drenched in blood. His limbs took on a leaden quality, suddenly becoming an extreme effort to lift. Even the chill of the snow melting into his clothes and soaking his skin became only a vague perception to him. A haze crept to the outer reaches of his sight, threatening to engulf him. Dimly, he heard his name again.

Before he fell away, he reached up and made sure that the mask still rested securely on his face. With that shred of comfort, the blackness descended.

* * *

His first thought upon waking was that he had only been out for a few minutes. A shadowed sky still domed above him, a light snow beginning to drift down from that starless void. The cold was nearly unbearable, tingling on the edge of his nerves almost like a burn. His mind felt lethargic, pushing back the cloud of drowsiness with slow advancement. He shifted restlessly, making no move to stand. He was temporarily at a loss, and as he drew in a deep breath to clear his head, he found himself exhaling in a dreadful sigh of nostalgia.

"Christine," he whispered aloud. _Why couldn't it have been real? Why couldn't you be here with me, just once more?_

He continued to lay there, the thought of drifting into a cold and eternal slumber almost appealing in that moment. Yet he knew eventually he would stand, if only to compose again and take solace in the music. It was a powerful force, his music, filled with the drive to preservere and the need to finish what melodies he still carried inside the well of his intellect. He would stand, sooner or later, but for a brief time he wanted only to let the cold sink in, and numb him.

"Come on, lazy! Are you just gonna lay there all night?"

A shadow fell over him, and as he looked up into its face, he felt his heartbeat quicken and his thoughts cease. Christine stood there, looking down on him with a smile so engaging that his ability to react was somewhat stunned. Her golden hair tumbled down a light blue coat, a furry woolen hat tucked over her head. She wore plain jeans that appeared fairly threadbare, and a pair of ice skates dangled over one shoulder. He simply gaped at her, his mouth moving without the benefit of words.

She giggled at him. "Erik, I'm very impressed with your snow angel, but I think it's time we got to the rink, don't you?"

"I...Christine...I don't know...what?" he babbled, shaking his head and gesturing helplessly with his hands. "What's going on?"

"You're making us late, that's what's going on," she replied with mock anger, putting her hands on her hips. She bit her lip to keep from giggling again. "Erik, you look a little confused...did I hit you too hard with that last snowball?"

"I bumped-," he began, then paused, sitting up gingerly. He laid a hand to the back of his skull, expecting the jabbing pain he had felt just before passing out. He felt nothing, no pain, no blood. His fingers ran across an undamaged scalp. He finished in a small voice, "I bumped my head."

With a concerned look, Christine crouched next to him. "Here, let me see."

She began to sift through his hair, the feel of her fingers sending a shiver down his spine. He hadn't seen her in four years, and now she was sitting right next to him, warm and real and alive. Her demeanor was so casual and relaxed, a temperament he had never seen in her while she lingered in his company. To some measure, their fascination should have been mutual, a certain level of fear within both sets of eyes. Yet by the way she smiled at him, now tugging playfully at his clothes, one would never assume that he had once lied, kidnapped, and controlled the girl who sat before him. He reached cautiously out to touch her, as though at any second she would fade away.

She took hold of his hand. "You're fine. No cuts back there. Come on, no more excuses! Let's go. The party's already started!"

As she pulled him to his feet, he noticed for the first time the sound of music and jovial voices. There was laughter and shouting, and people singing carols much closer than the faint murmur he had heard before. He glanced up and saw a luminous glow pouring out above the nearest hillock, a garish white sunrise that seemed to battle against the darkness overhanging it. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold passed through him, his mind diverged by the image he saw now and the one he remembered of a barren, murky park.

Christine began leading him by the hand, taking him towards that epicenter of light and celebration. He felt slightly imbalanced for some reason, as though something were missing that he couldn't quite place. He dismissed it with the absurdity of the entire situation, which was a complete imbalance of his very _life_. Time and reason had become flexible laws of nature, and what little sanity he had harbored to begin with seemed to have finally faded away. The only perceptible reality was Christine, and as long as she continued to hold his hand, he found his heart couldn't really take any concern at the idea of his own insanity.

Her excitement was dazzling to watch as they charged up the hill, little puffs of snow stirring beneath their feet. Her face was alight with overwhelming exhilaration, the color in her cheeks a lovely pale red. Her smile was full and resplendent, the hand he held warm and not shy in the least. But it was her eyes that captivated him; the blue of those eyes sparkled like the perfect gem of winter, and he found himself wondering how anyone could possibly be that beautiful compared with all the ugliness he had seen in the world.

"Oh, Erik! Look!"

She pointed down the hill, where a vast pond lay completely incased in ice. Families and couples swerved around on the surface, some displaying marvelous skill and others barely staying upright. A promenade bordered the far side, with a little shop where one could buy hot chocolate and rent skates. Strings of Christmas lights were wrapped around the poles, and lamp posts were shining around the length of the rink. A band stand had been erected to the right, and from there a series of stereos blared out the tunes. A group standing nearby would join in from time to time, their voices sweet and clean.

It was as he stood there, fascinated by the simple enchantment of that moment, that Erik realized what was wrong. The wind that blew against his face was terribly bitter, harsh and stinging against the exposed skin. In utter horror that he stood within view of so many, he ripped his hand away from Christine's and covered his face, stumbling back from the glare of the lights and so many prying eyes.

"Erik!" he heard her cry, and felt her hands upon his wrists.

"My mask!" he barked, resisting her attempts to pull his hands away. "Where is it? Where did I leave it?"

She kept pressure against him, willing him silently to lower his hands. At first he refused, his fingers beginning to claw inward towards his face with disgust and shame. Yet soon he understood that she did not mean to back down, and so remorsefully he allowed her to reveal his face. He closed his eyes, wishing suddenly that he didn't have to endure the horrid emptiness when she would let go of his hands, the sound of her footfalls as she backed away. He had been through this scene too many times, so much it seemed that he could not escape it even in the realms of fantasy and madness.

He felt her lips suddenly against his, lenient and yielding. He reacted, drawing back in surprise and confusion. She stared up at him, a deep sadness pooled in those heavenly blue eyes, and he realized with absolute amazement that he had hurt her by pulling back. She leaned forward again, so very gentle now, and kissed the mangled skin of his cheeks, resting her forward against his own. They breathed each other in, the air in between condensing into a cloud of tiny little ice crystals.

"I told you, Erik," she whispered, and her voice was the sweetest lullaby as she said his name. "Not when you're with me."

He saw only love and affection staring up at him, not a trace of revulsion or fear. He almost kissed her back in that moment, but he had temporarily lost the ability to do anything other than gape. She grasped his hand again, giving him a soft, reassuring smile as she led him down the hill. He followed in a daze, knowing that he would have done so even if she were leading him to his own death.

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A/N: So hopefully you liked it. I'm planning on making this a three chapter fic, so you'll find two more chapters of sweet December romance to get to. Please review, as a little Christmas gift. I'd really like to know what everyone thought of this piece! 


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